The shirtless man kept kicking, again and again, until Zarek's eyes fluttered shut, his consciousness slipping.
"Hmph. Who said you could sleep, brat?"
He raised his leg and brought it crashing down.
A sharp cry tore from Zarek's throat as a sickening crunch echoed through the room. His eyes shot open, bloodshot, veins bulging across the whites.
His brows knit tightly.
It felt like his nerves were being twisted into knots. Every fiber of his body screamed in agony.
But the man didn't stop.
The relentless kicks came one after another, merciless and brutal.
But, amidst the storm of pain, something changed. Slowly, Zarek's body began to adapt. His flesh toughened, his bones mended, and his strength began to grow, quietly, steadily.
'What a masochistic way to grow stronger,' he thought with a strange mix of awe and disbelief.
He truly embodied the phrase:
What doesn't kill me, makes me stronger.
As long as he didn't die, Zarek would continue to adapt.
